


And the Waltz Goes on

by anacoluthons



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: I would say porn without plot but there's way too many words for that, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Porn With Plot, Romance, postcanon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-06
Updated: 2017-12-06
Packaged: 2019-02-11 11:41:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12934524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anacoluthons/pseuds/anacoluthons
Summary: “You need to learn how to waltz.”Napoleon notes with some amusement that Illya stiffens immediately, comically folded up in the chair in Waverly’s office as he is. His knees are nearly even with the armrests, pants just a little too short and turtleneck just a little too big, as if he doesn’t quite realize how large he is—when Illya catches him staring, his upper lip peels back from his teeth, fingers curled tight into the chair. Napoleon only grins at the snarl aimed his way.(In which Illya needs to learn how to dance and Napoleon is, of course, recruited for the job.)





	And the Waltz Goes on

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't speak Russian, which is very lame. I did all the research I could on historical facts, including the music and the Soviet Union's treatment of lgbtq+ individuals. Any mistakes are my own.
> 
> Title is from Anthony Hopkin's waltz, [and the waltz goes on](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M57Fi19vcSI&index=18&list=LLHhvc9EHj_OtFQZl04eqg0Q) and the waltz they dance to is Shostakovich's [second waltz](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vauo4o-ExoY&index=16&list=LLHhvc9EHj_OtFQZl04eqg0Q). I recommend listening to both, as well as the [emperor waltz](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EBLaMmxyibE&list=PLNBxCTIUVE70YD3Mnlcm9nYX0_U5gKghF&index=28) while you read, as I listened to them when I wrote this.
> 
> Hover over the Russian text for translations. In case you can't see them, translations are as follows:
> 
> “да” - “Yes”  
> “Пожалуйста” - “Please”  
> “Прекрати это” - “Stop that”  
> “Дерьмо” - “Shit”
> 
> Enjoy!

“You need to learn how to waltz.”

Napoleon notes with some amusement that Illya stiffens _immediately_ , comically folded up in the chair in Waverly’s office as he is. His knees are nearly even with the armrests, pants just a little too short and turtleneck just a little too big, as if he doesn’t quite realize how large he is—when Illya catches him staring, his upper lip peels back from his teeth, fingers curled tight into the chair. Napoleon only grins at the snarl aimed his way.

“Why? There is no use for dancing.”

“On the contrary.” Waverly, still damnably cheery, folds his hands atop his desk and leans forward. “Dancing is quite the art form. It gives any agent miles of experience with movement and fighting form.” He taps a closed folder on his desk, sliding it close enough for Illya to reach. He doesn’t move, but Napoleon is tempted to reach for it and look himself. “And, as I recall, on your last mission, you nearly broke poor Ms. Teller’s toes.”

“That was—”

“An accident, yes, I know. But all the same.” Waverly leaves the file where it is as he leans back, letting silence blanket the office. Illya shifts in place, shoulders tight and back ramrod straight, but Napoleon, always the contradictor of his partner, remains relaxed as he leans forward.

“If I may,” he starts, and when Waverly nods, he continues. “Why am I here?” The question seems pointless, as Napoleon is sure he already knows the answer—and if he’s right, if Illya has figured it out, that explains why he’s nearly vibrating in his chair.

“You will be teaching Agent Kuryakin how to waltz.”

“Shouldn’t Gaby teach him?” Napoleon asks, eyebrows up, ignoring the way Illya has somehow frozen up even further. Illya’s discomfort is his business, not Napoleon’s. The question, he knows, is pointless; if Illya had almost broken Gaby’s toes during the last mission, he was certainly going to do it again.

“Unfortunately, Ms. Teller is unavailable, and considering their last attempts at dancing were rather…disastrous, you’re the best candidate,” Waverly explains, still cheerful. Napoleon would admire his ability to keep the mood up if this situation wasn’t so strained.

“What is the point of dancing with another man?” Illya finally manages to grind out from behind clenched teeth, accent thicker than Napoleon has heard since—well, since the last time someone made Illya uncomfortable, which happens far more often than one would think.

“Less chance of hurting Agent Solo, I should think. It could come in handy someday.” Waverly’s expression hardens imperceptibly, but enough that Napoleon can see Illya shift again, as if trying to cover up his initial reaction to the suggestion. “Will that be a problem, Agent Kuryakin?”

“No problem.”

“Good. It’s settled.” Waverly brings the folder back towards himself and sets it on a pile of paperwork before standing, quickly adjusting the line of his jacket before offering out his hand. Napoleon moves first, straightening up and taking Waverly’s hand with no amount of hesitation. “Always a pleasure, Mr. Solo.” Illya rises as if in a trance, awkwardly thrusting out his hand and shaking Waverly’s for just a moment. “Mr. Kuryakin.” He pauses, pushing up the bridge of his glasses with a finger. “You two are expected to start immediately. A training room has already been set aside for you.”

“Thank you, sir,” Napoleon offers, and Illya mutters something that sounds similar before trailing Napoleon into the hallway. For a moment, they both linger there, Napoleon taking the extra time to button up his blazer and Illya simply standing still. He can feel the Russian’s eyes on him, and after a sigh, he finally lifts his chin to meet the stare head-on. “Peril—”

“I will meet you down there,” Illya says, before Napoleon can go any further, nodding to himself and moving down the hallway in great, loping strides. Napoleon simply watches him leave, waiting for him to turn the corner before he follows at a much more sedate pace.

Despite their habit of going on more missions together than apart, and spending more time in Napoleon’s office than Illya’s (Illya even has files of his own stored in the cabinet), they still have separate offices at opposite ends of the hallway, with four offices of other agents in-between and their own officemates. Napoleon’s heard rumors that a couple of them count how often Illya walks up and down the hallway to see him, but he puts no stock into them—of course the number is going to be high. They _work_ together, and since the Vinciguerra mission, they had been each other’s constant partner.

He shuts the door of his office firmly, not surprised that the other agent that works in there is gone—William, an Englishman, is off in Egypt somewhere, working tirelessly to dig up all the members of a smuggling ring moving ancient artifacts around the world and prosecuting them for the thievery. Not the missions they usually get, but the group is well-armed, and there had been some talk of them targeting politicians to lessen the punishments for breaking the laws in place, or to disregard the laws entirely. That was enough to get the attention of U.N.C.L.E. International incidents of violence usually did.

Because of the nature of the building (in that it holds training rooms on the top floor far away from prying eyes on the streets below for any variety of activities), and of Napoleon himself (always ready for _anything_ ), he has a small suitcase with a few changes of clothes in it, and he crosses the room to lift it from its place in the corner, hands careful as they lay it on the polished surface of his desk. He clicks it open, fingers touching lightly at thin fabric, before he reconsiders—will he actually need a change of clothes for this? It’s unlikely the lesson will last more than an hour (if that), and he doubts Illya will go so far as to change entirely out of his current clothing. Instead, he shuts the case and begins to work at the knot of his tie, mind wandering with the familiar motion of his hands.

This idea—the entire _situation—_ still feels overwhelmingly surreal. Waverly, directing Napoleon, a _man,_ to teach Illya how to dance? Napoleon only vaguely knows some of the beliefs instilled in KGB agents, but he is well aware of how Russia feels about anything homosexual—even America has its prejudices, though Napoleon has never bought into any of them. Consenting adults can do what they want as long as they’re not hurting anybody else, and all that. Waverly has specifically put him on missions that involve seducing men, though they never go much further than kissing and, occasionally, enough touching to keep them interested. He’s had his own private experiences on that side of the field _outside_ of missions, and though he finds women are softer and warmer, skin smooth beneath his palms and soft hair ticklish against his cheeks when he presses barely-there kisses to their necks, there’s nothing wrong with the hard planes and natural strength of men. It’s simply easier to court women when there’s so much _danger_ in pursuing men, and it’s safer to just put up a front of only being interested in women, especially around their coworkers.

But Illya—Illya may (and most likely does) have much stronger beliefs against homosexuality, he muses, finally finishing with his tie and moving on to the buttons at the front of his jacket. The former KGB agent has always seemed uncomfortable when Napoleon is instructed to “handle” men, and he’s heard Gaby hiss at Illya to pay attention more than once. It’s not unreasonable, nor is it a surprise; it’s simply…inconvenient, perhaps. A little disheartening. Napoleon likes to think he and Illya are on good terms, moving ever closer to _friends,_ but the meeting in the office makes him reconsider. Is it the idea of dancing with another man, or with Napoleon? It hadn’t escaped his notice that Illya preferred Gaby as a dance partner, so he remains hopeful. It could just be the idea of having a _man_ as a partner that worries him, and Napoleon wants Illya to be as similar of a friend to him as Gaby his, though he can’t help feeling that it would somehow be—different. His relationship with Illya already feels different than the one he shares with Gaby, though that may simply be because Illya is—well, Illya. The man isn’t exactly easy to get along with, despite how much Napoleon tries.

Though only a few minutes have passed, Illya is nothing if not prompt, and Napoleon knows that the more time he takes, the more likely it is that the Red Peril will be impossible to deal with. Simply observing his reactions to Waverly’s suggestion had given him more than enough information, so he’s quick to fold his jacket on top of his desk and lay his tie over it, a small splash of color against charcoal gray. His only regret is that he doesn’t have more comfortable shoes, but they’ll have to do.

The hallway is clear when he exits the office, and he makes sure to shut the door behind him before heading in the same direction Illya had, only sparing a brief glance into the other man’s office—the sole inhabitant is Rannulf, his officemate, a former member of the _Bundesnachrichtendienst_ before U.N.C.L.E. had recruited him. Rannulf looks up briefly, thin lips pursing before he gestures at the door with his pen.

“He’s not here. Went downstairs already,” he offers, and Napoleon nods his thanks, turning to go—but then Rannulf is speaking again, large hands folded in front of him. “Agent Solo—a word.” Not good. Napoleon still says nothing, nudging his shoulder up into the doorframe until he can lean comfortably against it. “There are some— _rumors,_ about Kuryakin.”

“I’m aware.” Napoleon’s expression remains blank, lips in that perpetual curl that nearly resembles a smile and shoulders loose. Rumors about Illya are nothing new—the fledgling agency is understandably worried about Illya’s loyalties and his past transgressions, though it rubs him the wrong way that Rannulf is buying into them, as well. The man is a German; he knows better than most what it’s like to be spoken ill of.

“Not about his background. About his…interests,” Rannulf continues, expression tightening as he trips over the word choice. Something is prickling at the back of Napoleon’s neck, something that feels a lot like anxiety—he doesn’t want Rannulf talking about Illya like this, or Illya at all. The man has a habit of overstepping his bounds, both within U.N.C.L.E. and out in the field, and Napoleon knows he isn’t the only one that has tired of him sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong.

“His interests,” Napoleon repeats, as if for clarification, shoulders bunching up as he crosses his arms. Rannulf winces slightly, just a twitch of his eyebrows and a shift of his forearms on the edge of the table, but Napoleon still catches it.

“Who he spends his time with,” Rannulf says, making some sort of complicated gesture, and—ah. Napoleon makes the connection. His expression just barely darkens, likely too little to be seen, but he can feel his forehead crease and his fingers curl into his palms.

“That’s quite the accusation,” Napoleon replies, maintaining that casual air of camaraderie. Rannulf still looks halfway between nervous and uncomfortable, which…admittedly gives Napoleon some sense of satisfaction. “You do know the man is Russian?” he asks, doing his level best to lead the man astray. “Our friend in red comes from a country that imprisons men with homosexual predilections.”

“He has never responded to the flirtations of female agents or employees,” Rannulf begins, as if he’s getting ready to launch into a tirade—Napoleon represses a sigh, chin dipping towards his chest. “I’ve caught his eyes wandering—”

“Your concern is noted, Agent Drechsler.” Napoleon finally lifts his gaze, straightening until his weight no longer rests against wood paneling. “Thank you.” Rannulf stops, looking rather taken aback, and Napoleon takes that as his cue to leave.

 _More time wasted._ This, though, is far more worrisome than any delay Napoleon could accidentally (or intentionally) create.  He’s well aware that there are other agents that are at least _reasonably_ attractive that have been ordered to seduce men—rumors had flown about them, too, though nothing had ever stuck, as the majority of them had wives waiting for them at home or showed interest in the women around them.

But Illya…Illya never displayed any kind of interest in anyone except Napoleon and Gaby, who he spent most of his time with. In the beginning, Napoleon had guessed that Illya and Gaby would end up together, an inevitable end to their first mission together posing as lovers—their supposed mutual interest had continued all the way into them moving into the building, and then it had unfurled into a bond that resembled the familial more than anything. That bond had kept the dogs at bay, so to speak, but only for a little while—the worrying mixture of paranoia and discomfort aimed Illya’s way by nearly every other agent was only contributing to the rumors that surrounded him, it seems.

However, with Rannulf’s evidence circumstantial at best and downright ridiculous at worst, there’s no reason to intercept him and go to Waverly first, or to push that confrontation any further than it had already gone. There’s simply nothing there able to prove Rannulf’s implications. Instead, Napoleon turns around the corner of the hallway and pushes open the door that leads upstairs, steps light and sure on smooth concrete.

A large, wide open room greets him, hard flooring beneath his shoes and more solid walls on either side of him, though somebody made a dismal attempt at painting over the slate gray with an atrocious pale blue. It came out a muddled, dark shade, but he ignores it in favor of hugging the wall to his right and making his way to the back of the space. There are all kinds of equipment in there: resistance machines, cardiovascular equipment, even a full set of weights and punching bags, and a line of doors on the far wall, next to the windows. He’s only ever been in two of them, but he chooses the one to the far left, rapping his knuckles on the door before pushing it open.

It _looks_ a lot like a dance studio, a wall of floor to ceiling mirrors on one side and wide open windows on the other, the sun’s gradual slip behind the jagged line of the New York skyline casting ever-growing shadows across polished wooden flooring. A record player sits between a radio and a case full of dusty records, all three furnishings showing some signs of age. Napoleon’s gaze lifts, slides to the middle of the room where Illya is, and he just—stops.

Illya stands in the middle of the space, shoulders back, face tipped towards the windows. The sun cuts a golden line across his cheek, warmth spilling over his jaw and down the smooth bend of his neck to glint off the faint shadow of stubble. He looks—at peace, contemplative, blond hair a golden halo around his head and eyes a radiant blue flame beneath the gentle feather of his eyelashes. Napoleon stands still, frozen in place, until Illya is turning to face him, expression immediately hardening into something like irritation. _There he is._

“What took so long?” Illya immediately asks, moving until he stands at attention, his whole body one tense line. He still wears the same thing he was before, which—figures, really. The only difference is that he has his sleeves rolled up, skin a sharp, pale contrast against black fabric.

“Our good friend Rannulf wanted to speak to me.” Napoleon brushes by Illya as if nothing had stopped him in the first place, intent on looking at the collection of records on the shelf. Illya’s comfort is his main goal, here, and if they happen to have _any_ Russian classical music stocked, that will be the obvious first choice. “He talked about you.”

It takes him almost a full minute of searching before he realizes Illya hasn’t said anything, and he turns, eyebrows knitting together. Illya’s perfectly still, a marble statue in the center of the room if not for the uneven flutter of his eyelashes.

“Peril?” he prompts, and Illya startles, hands fisting by his sides.

“What did he say?”

Napoleon hesitates, floundering between coming out with it and thinking of something else, a sort of half-truth—he has no idea if Illya knows about the rumors, nor does he know how the man will handle them. Napoleon himself has never been accused of being homosexual, despite the dozens of marks in his file about his various seduction missions involving both men and women, but he thinks that he would still, somehow, handle it better. It helped that he flirted with anything female that was in the office; the same could not be said for Illya.

“He tried to accuse you of being a homosexual.”

“That is nothing new.” Napoleon turns until he almost faces Illya fully, surprise slackening his jaw and pulling his eyebrows together again. Illya looks directly at him, something dark and thunderous beneath the smooth, blank slate of his expression before it clears entirely and he merely looks…annoyed, which is a display Napoleon is all too familiar with. “Drechsler accuses everyone of being homosexual,” he finally mutters after a hefty pause. “Even you.”

Napoleon says nothing in response, turning back and finally finding something that they can waltz to—he balances it in his hands and blows a thick coating of dust off the sleeve, watching it glitter in the glow of the sun before he’s placing it on the record player and adjusting it. He sets the needle on the disc, listening to it spit and crackle before the smooth notes pushed forth from a saxophone swell in the sun-warmed air around them.

“Is that…Shostakovich?” Illya asks, at length, and when Napoleon turns, his breath leaves him in a sharp twist—Illya’s expression is open, something painful warring with the mask he always has painted on, and Napoleon nods as best as he can, tongue thick in his mouth. He’s never seen an expression like that on Illya’s face, not in all the time they’ve worked together or shared a space.

“It is.” He paces closer, and Illya immediately tenses up, trepidation taking over whatever nameless emotion had been on his face before. “Are you ready?”

“Yes,” Illya says, but makes no other move, remaining absolutely still. He remains as far from Napoleon as he was before, fingers tapping at his thighs. It’s not the rapid staccato brought forth by anger or murderous intent, simply…nervousness. Unease.

“Lift up your arms, then.” Napoleon has already resigned himself to doing most of the work until Illya is comfortable with being close to him, touching him, _dancing_ with him. Illya’s arms raise until they parallel the middle of Napoleon’s chest, and Napoleon steps in close, gently taking Illya’s hand in his own, as if touching a spooked animal.

Illya flinches immediately, hand jerking in Napoleon’s grip, and he loosens it, waiting for the Russian to adjust. He frowns, and Napoleon looks up at him, blue meeting blue as Illya’s eyes narrow.

“Your hand on top.”

“What?”

“Woman’s hand goes on top, Cowboy,” Illya clarifies, nudging Napoleon’s hand with his own until it rests across the length of his palm. His lips almost, _almost_ tug into a smile at the scandalized expression Napoleon gives him for being called the _woman._ “I will lead.”

“You don’t know how to,” Napoleon interjects, switching their hands again. It’s more to adjust Illya to the feel of it than out of a desire to actually lead the dance—Illya looks less and less uncomfortable the more Napoleon touches him. “I’ll lead, and you can follow by example.”

Illya’s brow furrows at Napoleon’s blunt comment on the nature of his waltzing, but his lips pull into a reluctant scowl, fingers tightening where they sit on top of Napoleon’s hand.

“I am taller. And stronger,” Illya protests, one last attempt at swinging Napoleon’s opinion in the other direction.

“All a matter of personal opinion, Peril.” Illya grunts, his own form of agreement, and Napoleon’s grin is nothing short of triumphant. “Hand on my shoulder.”

“I know basic waltz position, Solo,” Illya snaps, though there’s barely any heat behind it. His hand lifts, flexes, before it settles on Napoleon’s shoulder, a warm weight through the thin material of his shirt. Napoleon almost wishes he had kept the jacket on, another barrier between the heat of Illya’s hand and his bare skin, but it’s rather pointless to wish for that now.

He doesn’t move for a long series of seconds before he’s putting his own hand to Illya’s waist, pressing in gently until he can feel the twitch of firm muscle under his fingers and slide it around to his lower back. Illya’s too warm, skin burning hot beneath his turtleneck, and Napoleon can distinctly hear the stutter of Illya’s breath through his lungs, can feel the tightening of muscles around the sinuous dip of his spine, and it draws him into a lengthy hesitation—nothing moves besides the unequal tempo of their breathing, music dipping and spinning around them like a tangible fog.

“Cowboy,” Illya murmurs, unsure, and Napoleon finally, _finally_ begins, hand moving up to Illya’s upper back as he sinks into the steps he now knows by heart. His steps are confident, perfectly timed to the waltz, but Illya is—not so lucky. Only a minute or so in and he’s already too tense, muscles wound tight as a spring. He resists nearly every move Napoleon makes, as if he isn’t confident in Napoleon’s movements—or his own.

“You need to let me _lead,_ Peril,” Napoleon gripes, and Illya immediately stops, that old snarl from before reappearing to show the upper line of his teeth. It’s weaker, though, his attention focused elsewhere, as if he can’t muster the effort to look as beastly as he usually does. He finally makes eye contact with Napoleon again, though Napoleon thinks he doesn’t seem all that happy to.

“I _am_ ,” Illya nearly growls, and Napoleon sighs, put-upon, adjusting the grip he has on his partner again.

“Watch my feet when I move,” Napoleon suggests, before trying again. This time, Illya goes a little more willingly, letting Napoleon move him around the floor and eyes aimed at their feet. He only trips once and hesitates less, but his gaze remains entirely focused on the steps Napoleon leads him through. The suggestion had come only moments before, yes, but Napoleon had hoped Illya would catalogue enough to look back up by now. It hadn’t happened yet.

Before he can say anything, however, the waltz swings into silence, and Illya pauses, utterly arresting Napoleon’s momentum. Napoleon’s movement doesn’t stop there, however, and he trips over one of Illya’s feet, who tries to jerk back to get out of Napoleon’s way—but he doesn’t let him go, one hand moving to tighten around Illya’s upper arm and the other flattening against his chest. Illya has always been somewhat of a brick wall, tall and powerful and unmovable, and it’s not the first time Napoleon has righted himself by using those qualities; his hands, however, lay where they are for only a brief second before Illya is pulling completely away, aloof and uneasy once again. Napoleon stares, brow furrowed, before he squares his shoulders.

“If you have a problem with this, Kuryakin, you need to tell me.” Illya looks away, and Napoleon’s expression hardens further—Illya has been uncomfortable all day, from Waverly’s office to the first moment of contact to _now,_ when Napoleon has done no more than he ever has before. “We can find someone else to teach you.”

“It’s not you,” Illya says, and for one hysterical moment, Napoleon thinks he’s going to say “it’s me,” entirely too similar to that common excuse couples use when they want to leave each other without digging into their deeper issues. He avoids eye contact at all cost, stare aimed at the floor, and Napoleon is finding it…difficult to believe he’s telling the whole truth. “It is…dancing. In general.”

Napoleon purses his lips, a little lost, before he asks, “Dancing? Why?” Illya shifts in place, face turning away from Napoleon and out towards the window again—the sun has set further, a wash of rose pink and brilliant gold casting the both of them in an ethereal light that makes Napoleon feel loose and light, a haze tinting the sides of his vision that gives this conversation an almost dreamlike quality.

“My mother played Shostakovich in the evenings.” Illya’s voice is low, rough, as if the words are being pulled out of him by force. “She would—dance with me, when I was young.” Long, half-moon shadows settle over the crest of his cheekbones when his eyes close, something ticking in his jaw as he swallows slowly. “That was last time I waltzed.”

Napoleon says nothing for a long time, unsure of how to respond—pity would be disastrous, kindness or humor even worse—Illya so rarely shares pieces of his past with anyone, even the people he works closest with. He can almost see it in his mind’s eye: Illya, lanky and clumsy and growing too fast, large hand on his mother’s waist as she twirled him around the room to an even tempo, the laughter on her face only matched by the grin on Illya’s own—the picture disappears in the hurried rush of another, darker thought, and Napoleon’s lips thin into a line.

He had never apologized for commenting on Illya’s mother’s lifestyle; it ate away at him, sometimes, the things he had said to Illya before he had gotten to know the man behind the threatening veil the KGB had armed him with. Someday in the future, perhaps, he could bring it up and apologize for past transgressions.

“Did she teach you anything else?” Napoleon finally manages, striding back towards the record player. Some people function better when attention is diverted away from them—Illya is rarely comfortable with scrutiny of any kind; it’s an easy conclusion to draw.

“—She tried to teach me jitterbug,” Illya responds, at length, and Napoleon struggles to suppress a laugh—imagining Illya, long-limbed and already a giant, trying desperately to keep up with the rapid steps is nothing short of amusing. Something halfway between a chuckle and a cough slips out, and Illya scoffs. “Shut up, Cowboy.” No malice, though—progress is being made, and that same alarming warmth spreads through Napoleon’s chest again.

“Sounds like it didn’t stick,” Napoleon comments idly, no traces of humor left in his speech patterns or his body language, but Illya still says something in Russian under his breath anyway. Napoleon’s lips twitch, but he doesn’t comment on it, adjusting the record and resetting the needle again in favor of continuing to tease him. Once that familiar rhythm starts up again, he pivots until he sees Illya and takes his former position in front of him. “Your turn to lead, Peril.”

“What?”

“You’ve watched the steps and listened to the music.” Napoleon takes another step closer, near enough now to see the uneven flicker of Illya’s pulse at the hinge of his jaw. “Letting me lead will only delay the inevitable.”

Illya swallows convulsively, a _click_ at the back of his throat before he’s reaching for Napoleon, fingers sliding carefully into the crux of Napoleon’s palm. His eyes track the movement of his own hands, sweeping down to the one that curves around Napoleon’s waist and settles in the arch of his spine. Napoleon keeps his eyes on Illya’s face, watching the barely visible progression of emotions—nervousness to resignation to concentration, and then Illya’s gaze is meeting his, determination knitting the heavy line of his brow. Napoleon feels the flex of muscle in Illya’s shoulder as he begins the steps, thumb resting delicately against the frame of his clavicle and fingers loose in Illya’s grip.

At first, it’s clumsy and altogether nearly too awkward to stand, Illya’s hackles rising every time he meets Napoleon’s eye after he accidentally steps on his toes—Napoleon is careful not to do anything besides smile reassuringly. He has the basics, knows what a proper waltz looks like; it’s only a matter of time before he gets it.

“One, two, three. Count the steps,” Napoleon advises, voice soft in the waning light around them.

Illya pauses only briefly before adjusting, shoulders dropping and fingers curling in Napoleon’s grip, and suddenly, it’s as if something _clicks—_ the tension leaves his body, and he hits every mark, not committing a single noticeable mistake. His hands are warm at Napoleon’s back and at his wrist, strides smooth and sure with every new turn, and when Napoleon looks up, he catches the Red Peril almost _smiling_ down at him _,_ blue eyes crinkling up at the corners, and—oh. Oh, no. He knows what this is.

The warmth in his chest from before, the attention he’s paid to the way the sun slants across Illya’s frame, the fondness that came with imagining Illya together with his mother—it’s attraction. _Want._ He’s attracted to Illya, to his partner, to his _friend,_ to the one man in the office who stands to lose the most from being pursued by Napoleon.

Suddenly, he feels Illya’s hand shift at his back, sliding up to flatten against the broad muscles beside his spine, and the grip on his fingers tighten, as if to prepare for a change. Napoleon knows this routine, knows what it means, but Illya trying to perform it? Unlikely. He just learned the proper _steps._

“Peril?” he asks, before he’s actually _being dipped,_ just like he’d not tried to entertain, Illya’s hips shifting to compensate for the change in weight and for the fact that Napoleon is certainly heavier than he looks. Lines intersect across Illya’s forehead, his mouth tight in concentration, until he reaches the point where he can balance Napoleon perfectly in the proper stance, and suddenly his expression is clearing, as if he’s emerged the victor from a battle. That small smile, the gentle curl of his lips and the glitter of blue beneath the dark blond of his eyelashes is abruptly aimed at Napoleon, and Napoleon’s breath leaves him in a _whoosh,_ heart beating an erratic, and embarrassingly fast, tempo in his breast.

“Cowboy?” Illya finally answers, parroting Napoleon’s question back at him, but his tone is light, verging on breathless, and he slowly straightens his spine until they stand properly again.

Everything is so _quiet,_ an oppressive silence that weighs heavily down on Napoleon’s senses—the only sounds around them are the repeated _tick, tick_ of the needle scratching against the inside label of the record and their breathing, Illya’s deep and controlled against Napoleon’s shallower and more erratic breaths. His chest is pressed flush to Illya’s, arm bent uncomfortably to still rest on his shoulder, and he swallows thickly, throat flexing around the movement—it’s only because his eyes are on Illya’s face that he catches the man’s gaze dropping to linger at the base of his neck, and then tracking up when Napoleon wets his lips with his tongue. A long second passes before he’s meeting Napoleon’s eyes again, something thrilling and dark and _unknown_ glittering in his gaze.

Illya’s heavy breaths, the wide, black sea of his pupils swallowing up the blue around them, the long slant of shadow across a portion of his face and the matching contrast of rose gold pooling in the cupid’s bow of his lips—they all make Napoleon want to do something very, _very_ stupid. It’s so _warm_ standing here, bordering on feverish where he’s pushed up against Illya’s solid bulk; Napoleon swears he’s able to feel heat crackle in the scant inches that remain between them, a fire burning in every place they touch—and then Illya’s hand is curling against his side, thumb pressing into the crest of bone at Napoleon’s hip to match the way his fingers spread to flatten against a portion of his lower back. Napoleon sucks in a breath between his teeth, eyelids falling until his eyes nearly close completely—this is dangerous territory, here, toeing the line between purely dancing and something…else. Something that he isn’t sure he wants to look closely enough at to define.

Illya is still staring at him, doing nothing, absolutely still if not for the rise and fall of his chest and the gradual parting of his lips; Napoleon feels as if he’s teetering on the edge of a knife, off-balance and confused and brain struggling to catch up with the signals he’s being given. This could be nothing—simply a byproduct of being too close to Napoleon for more than a few minutes for the first time in their “partnership,” misplaced attraction, _anything—_ but Napoleon has never been one to waste an opportunity presented to him.

All in one smooth, practiced motion, the hand at Illya’s shoulder skims up to his neck, thumb settling against the thundering of Illya’s pulse and fingers curling around the back of his neck—and then Napoleon is breaching the minimal distance that had remained between them, no hesitation in the firm push of his lips against Illya’s mouth.

Illya goes stock still, solid concrete against Napoleon’s front, but before Napoleon can even consider backing off, can try to come up with a hundred different ways to excuse his actions, Illya’s hand tightens where it is on Napoleon’s hip, the underside of his jaw flexing against the pad of Napoleon’s thumb to return that initial press of Napoleon’s mouth. That’s all the permission Napoleon needs; the hand still in Illya’s grip skims up the smooth underside of his forearm and over the jut of his elbow to lock around his shoulder, fingers tight on the hard bands of muscle beneath black fabric. Illya’s lips are feverish against his, a desperate push and pull, some kind of noise he tries to cut off vibrating in the back of his throat when Napoleon tilts his head.

Illya’s fingers clutch at Napoleon’s side, nails digging into the space between his spine and the narrow flare of his hip, and Napoleon feels Illya’s free hand rest warm and heavy on the back of his neck, fingertips working into the shorter hair at the back of his head. He grunts against Napoleon’s mouth, lips parting, as if he’s _displeased_ by the barrier the product in Napoleon’s hair creates—but Napoleon takes that opportunity to push past Illya’s lips, licking into the heat of his mouth and curling his tongue around the back of Illya’s teeth. That grunt turns into a high-pitched whine, and Illya’s hand tightens in his hair, a pull that verges on being painful.

The thing is—Napoleon knows he’s good at kissing. He’s had more than enough experience in the field, and the comments he’s received, whether verbal or not, only point to that same conclusion. He can think on his toes, adapt to most situations, leave a target desperate for more—he knows how to play this game, and he plays it _well._ It’s a talent he’s focused on frequently enough to hone it to perfection.

What he hadn’t known, though—hadn’t predicted, or accounted for—was Illya’s potential experience with the same subject. Whether it’s simply instinctual movements or educated guesses, he’s already figured out that Napoleon enjoys being handled _roughly,_ fingers a hard vice clasped around his hip and a tight grip on his hair that draws something that sounds embarrassingly like a _moan_ from him. 

Napoleon tries to press even closer, the hand on Illya’s shoulder dropping to tuck up underneath the hem and brush against hot skin—and Illya’s suddenly stepping into him, thigh pushing up against the apex of Napoleon’s legs and elbow flexing to draw Napoleon’s hips closer to his own. But when Napoleon actually moves his hips, nudges them against the meat of Illya’s thigh, Illya suddenly _jolts,_ hands pushing at Napoleon’s chest to back away as fast as he can. Napoleon’s eyes snap back open at the movement, and he’s quick to take a step backwards, leaving a good foot between them. Illya’s eyes are nothing but pupil, a pink flush beneath his skin and hair sticking up awkwardly at the back of his head; he looks like he’s just been _ravaged,_ and Napoleon is only able to stare at the ruby red of Illya’s lips for a second before he’s scrubbing the back of his hand across his mouth.

Something in Napoleon’s chest goes cold, and he takes another unnecessary step back, carefully arranging his expression to give nothing away.

“Illya.” The name feels strange in his mouth, a taste he’s not sure he likes—not in this context, in any case.

“No, Solo. This should not have happened.” Illya looks down at his wrist, for a moment, eyebrows pulled together, as if he hadn’t realized what he’d been doing; he drops it as soon as he makes eye contact with Napoleon, however, and his expression shifts. For the life of him, Napoleon can’t read whatever emotions Illya is displaying—truthfully, he doesn’t think he wants to.

“The dancing, or the kiss?” Napoleon asks, purposely pushing at the open wound, and when Illya looks at him, stricken and uncomfortable, he feels a sick sort of satisfaction.

“Both,” he finally answers, lips thinning. Napoleon notes that Illya’s fingers are tapping again, an agitated beat against his right thigh, but he doesn’t comment on it.

“I’ll alert Waverly, then. We can find you someone else to learn from. A woman this time.” Napoleon flashes a smile, all teeth, and Illya says nothing in response—though his eyes do drop a fraction, focusing somewhere around the open collar of Napoleon’s shirt. His expression is impossible to read, but Napoleon thinks he spots regret carved in the lines of his forehead.

“Solo—” Illya starts, looking up again, and Napoleon can almost see the apology forming on his lips. He doesn’t want to hear it, not after Illya had pushed him away and tried to wipe at his mouth, as if Napoleon was something _dirty,_ something he needed to clean off of himself.

“See you tomorrow, Peril,” he says, cutting Illya off before he can get any further.

His hope, his _weakness,_ shows in the hesitation he takes when he places his hand on the doorknob; he can still see Illya from the corner of his eye, tall and unmoving in the growing darkness provided by the absence of the sun. He’s cast mostly in shadow, the upper portion of his forehead and the gold-dipped strands of his hair solely remaining in the sun’s glow, and Napoleon inexplicably wants Illya to stop him, wants him to interrupt him with his voice, a hand curled into the soft fabric of his shirt, anything—but it never comes. Illya stays where he is, only moving to tug his sleeves back down to his wrists, and Napoleon turns the handle of the door, slipping back out into bright, artificial lighting and letting it close behind him. The desire to apologize was clearly fleeting.

The room is empty save for one other agent pounding away at a punching bag, fists light and quick, and Napoleon flounders for a moment, an idea blossoming—but, eventually, he decides against it. Physicality and violence have never been his go-to vice when things don’t quite go his way. He has other ways of easing the queasy churn of disappointment and the hot burn of anger still smoking away in his chest.

He feels weak, fleeing like this—after all that had happened, Illya had remained in the room, though Napoleon thinks that if he hadn’t frozen up and immediately retreated behind his walls, he would have left before Napoleon had the chance to. But he’s not going to turn around and go back now, not after he had already burned his bridges and refused to let Illya apologize. It’s far too late now to ask him why—why he had seemed so uncomfortable, why he had let Napoleon kiss him, why he had kissed back, and then why he had called it a mistake.

And, he realizes, that’s the crux of the problem, isn’t it? The reason for all his confusion. Illya had kissed him back, and he had kissed him back with no _small_ amount of enthusiasm. His hands, his mouth, the press of him against every inch of Napoleon—he hadn’t imagined that. Was Illya just lost in the moment, swept up into the current of Napoleon’s own lips and hands (which happened too often; he had had more than his fair share of drinks thrown into his face), or had he _wanted_ it, and then simply changed his mind? Had some sort of crisis? Both are equally possible, based on the limited knowledge Napoleon possesses on his partner and the rumors that surround him. Though he’s never bought into the stories around Illya, select rumors could have some truth to them. It had happened before with other agents, and with Napoleon himself.

Regardless of what the answer is, though, it isn’t going to suddenly show itself in the stark, industrial lines of the workout equipment nearby or the even beat of gloves striking canvas across the room. He tucks his hands into the pockets of his trousers and heads all the way back down to his office, taking note with some detachment that almost everybody in the rooms between the stairs and the end of the corridor have left by now. It isn’t surprising—it’s long past the time most people go home, and it’s only because of the lesson that Napoleon had stayed later in the first place. But lingering in the building after the work day ends isn’t a new habit; Illya often stays late to keep looking over particular cases, and Napoleon accompanies him, sometimes even going as far as picking them up dinner and bringing it back so neither of them lose their energy over the course of the night.

But that’s certainly not going to happen tonight. There’s not going to be any dry jokes shared over greasy hamburger wrappers, or warmth shared in the press of their shoulders as Napoleon leans over to point something out or Illya tries to grab a pen from the far side of the table. Napoleon picks up his briefcase and his jacket, folding the clothing over his arm and switching the case to his dominant hand. He doesn’t look down the hallway when he shuts the light off and leaves, even when he hears the door leading upstairs open. It could be Illya, it could be someone else—but he doesn’t want to risk meeting Illya’s eyes in this long, dimly-lit limbo. His gaze would burn a hole right through Napoleon even twenty feet away, the closed-off set of his shoulders only stoking the flames still smoldering away in Napoleon’s chest; no, it’s better he continues on his way and slips into the familiar role he always embodies, mustering a nod and a friendly smile for Nancy, who returns the expression from where she’s packing up her things behind the front desk.

Despite having settled in the city a few months ago, he still hasn’t had the opportunity to purchase his own car, so he flags a taxi down with a wave, storing his briefcase beside him and rattling off the address of his apartment building to the driver. It’s a short drive, only ten minutes at most, but Napoleon spends it peering out the window, watching the filmy shine of the streetlights streak across the window and spill over the frame of the car door. He doesn’t let his mind wander to Illya, instead keeping his thoughts strictly to the next case they have coming up (a weapons manufacturer preparing to sell blueprints of nuclear arms to the highest bidder at an international underground market in South Africa), when Gaby’s scheduled to return from her current mission (in a week, just enough time to make the mission he and Illya are being sent on), and whether he remembered to lock up his office or not (he didn’t). It’s easier to keep pretending as if the dancing never happened, to act like Illya had never shoved at Napoleon’s chest harshly or scrubbed his sleeve over his mouth, like he couldn’t get far enough away fast enough.

No, he doesn’t allow himself to think about that as he pays the driver, doesn’t let it come up when he crosses the street, takes the stairs to his floor, or unlocks the door to his apartment. In fact, it doesn’t cross his mind until he’s washed some of the product out of his hair and slipped out of his shoes, doing the best he can to relax. He slides off his waistcoat and leaves the top two buttons of his shirt undone, running a hand through the hair at the back of his head as he retrieves the scotch from its place and pours himself a glass. Napoleon keeps it low, despite wanting nothing more than to drink until he forgets, and takes it with him out to the balcony, slipping into a chair and propping his socked feet up on the railing.

From here, he can see a good portion of the city, cars bumping along on the road beneath him and the lights of tall, industrial office buildings twinkling in the breezy, blue-tinged night air. The sunset settles cool and purple against the exposed skin at his throat and the insides of his wrists, and he lifts the glass to his lips, welcoming the warm burn of good scotch at the back of his throat. Napoleon swirls the liquid in the glass, for a moment, simply watching artificial lights wink off the smooth, crystal-cut edge before his eyes are lifting, chin tipping towards the sky as a cool breeze ruffles the wrinkled line of his shirt collar.

His eyes remain on the barely-there glitter of stars against a sea of dark blues and purples as he thinks of Illya, and of Illya’s words, and of the actions he had taken in the studio. It certainly isn’t the first time Napoleon has been rejected, or taken things a step too far. He’s risked the success rate of missions because of his tendency to push where he should be backing off, and he’s been scolded many times for it. Sometimes, it’s simply to bend the rules, to see how much he’s able to get away with—not a new habit, by any means, as many years of his life have been spent intentionally _breaking_ rules in order to keep up with his lifestyle. Other times, it’s accidental; he doesn’t realize he’s crossing some sort of boundary until it’s already far behind him and he has to deal with the consequences.

What had been the case with Illya? It doesn’t feel completely like one or the other. He hadn’t pushed Illya because it was convenient for him and would help him reach an end goal, and he knew he was blurring the lines of their professional relationship by kissing Illya in the first place. What had it been, then?

Napoleon thinks he almost has the answer. When Illya had looked down at him, had aimed that rare smile his way, he had _wanted_ to kiss him—not because he had been aiming to prod at Illya’s boundaries or needed something from the man. Napoleon had simply…wanted to feel Illya’s mouth against his, had _needed_ to know what it would be like to kiss his partner. It doesn’t need to be any more complicated than that, but because of Illya’s first response, and then his second, Napoleon can’t stop thinking about it.

But he doesn’t get any further than that—as he’s lifting his drink to his lips, alcohol burning at the tip of his tongue, there’s a knock on his front door, three even strikes of knuckles against heavy wood. Napoleon swallows slowly, fingers lightly tapping on the outside rim of the glass as he looks back over his shoulder. It could be any number of people: his neighbor, asking to borrow milk again, a coworker dropping by to give him something he had forgotten, the delivery of a package he had been expecting (though it’s a little too late for the last option to be possible). Napoleon resolutely doesn’t think about the possibility of it being Illya, though it takes every ounce of effort to do so. He remains where he is, head gently cocked to the side, and counts down from fifteen—on four, the person knocks again, less time between each beat, and that convinces Napoleon to finally stand.

He puts his drink on a table beside the open doors, turning it so it’s nearly hidden by a small chest and flicking on the lights so his apartment is no longer bathed in darkness. Not for his own comfort, but for his visitor’s; he doesn’t want to give the impression that he’d been sleeping, or been sitting in silence with all the lights out—the latter, especially, doesn’t sound like the kid of hobby a sane man would have. As soon as he pushes the switch for the light closest to the door, he hears shifting on the other side, a telltale _creak_ on one of the floorboards that speaks of a switch in where the person’s weight is balanced, but Napoleon doesn’t bother looking through the peephole. He simply twists the knob and pulls it open, and standing there, looking awkward and closed-off is, _of course,_ Illya.

Napoleon pauses before speaking—how does he address Illya here? Does he aim for formal, informal, or the unfortunately most appealing option of all, sarcasm? Though Napoleon is tempted to choose the latter, he doesn’t; Illya came all the way here even after what had happened, and Napoleon owes him…something, at least.

“Agent Kuryakin. What a surprise,” Napoleon tries, opening the door a little wider so he can rest his shoulder on the frame.

“Solo,” Illya acknowledges with a stiff nod, only looking at Napoleon for a moment before he’s peering over Napoleon’s head, gaze focused somewhere on the open room behind where Napoleon stands. After that, he falls silent, and Napoleon raises his eyebrows, abruptly wishing he had just taken the drink _with_ him to the door.

“Was there something you needed?” Napoleon prompts, and Illya startles, as if he hadn’t been paying attention. His hands fist by his sides, fingers curling and uncurling from his palms, and Napoleon watches them for a moment, lips pursing before he’s bringing his eyes back up to Illya’s face.

“Can I come in?”

“I’m not sure that’s such a good idea.” Napoleon rubs at the space between his brows with two fingers, trying to smooth out the wrinkles through sheer force of will. It doesn’t work.

“Please, Solo,” Illya says, and Napoleon looks up, suddenly, teeth clenched so tightly that pain lances through the muscles on either side of his jaw.

“Fine,” Napoleon acquiesces, fingers curling around the door before he steps back and away from the only entrance to his apartment. Illya enters, stopping somewhere in the middle of the front room, and Napoleon closes the door, leaning his back up against solid wood. Illya does nothing but look around the room slowly, eyes catching only momentarily on the not-so-cleverly hidden glass on the desk pushed into the opposite wall. Napoleon sighs, long and quiet beneath his breath, and crosses the room to pick up his glass again before rounding on Illya. “What is it, Kuryakin? Why are you here?” he asks, unable to prevent his voice from sounding tired. Still, at least he tried.

“I want to talk about today,” Illya answers, ever short and sweet and to the point. It only comes as a minor surprise—Napoleon knows they had to talk about it eventually, though he hadn’t been expecting it to be quite so soon. He sips from his drink before speaking, ignoring the heavy weight of Illya’s stare on him. “About—what happened.”

“You can’t even say it,” Napoleon points out, lips pulling into something that’s nearly one of his usual, carefree smiles. Aiming for normalcy in situations that call for anything but comforts him, sometimes—being the voice of reason, and a pillar of strength, when nothing else is going as planned has its benefits. “Therefore—there’s nothing to talk about.”

“About the kiss,” Illya retries, and Napoleon swears he can hear the man’s teeth grinding in discomfort from where he still stands against the desk at his back. This clearly isn’t easy for Illya to do, to put himself on the line like this, but Napoleon has no pity for him—rather, he’s a little impressed the Russian made it this far. Illya has never been talkative, even less so about his feelings, but Napoleon has put himself out there time and again when it comes to the Russian. There’s no room for pity here.

“What about it, Peril?” Napoleon says, a sigh chasing the low murmur of his voice. “I’m not apologizing for it.”

That seems to draw Illya up short—Napoleon can see his body go lax for an instant in the upper fringe of his vision, and it prompts him to look up; by the time he gets there, however, Illya is already tense again, jaw clenched tight and arms bent halfway at his sides. He looks ready to fight, as if one wrong word will spur him into immediate action.

“Why not?”

“Because,” Napoleon answers, drawing the word out, “I don’t regret it.”

“You don’t.” Illya phrases it as a statement, not a question, and Napoleon hears something in his voice, something that he’s unable to place—it tightens his fingers on his glass, almost makes his arm tremble when he lifts it to his lips. But Napoleon remains steadfast; he has to tread carefully, here, as if he’s dealing with a spooked animal that would either turn tail and run or snap its teeth at him.

“No,” Napoleon reaffirms, and his eyes slowly trek up, over the uneven rise and fall of Illya’s chest and the high neckline of his shirt to meet his gaze head-on. His stare burns even from fifteen feet away, deep and blue and dark in the calm mask Napoleon can see Illya is having trouble maintaining.

Illya remains absolutely still, huge and unmoving where he stands in the middle of the room. What more can Napoleon say? Or, more accurately, what else is he _willing_ to say? That he would do it again, no questions asked, even if the outcome turns out to be the same? That he’s still able to feel the phantom press of Illya’s mouth, and that he didn’t miss how Illya, _not_ him, had been the one to take it a step further?

But he doesn’t actually get that far. As Napoleon is draining the rest of his drink, fingers light around the rim, Illya finally moves towards him—he is unable to think of it as anything but a _prowl,_ a distinctly predatory gait that brings forth the image of a panther to Napoleon’s mind. Illya is all sleek lines and barely-contained impulse, his body throwing off enough heat for Napoleon to imagine he can physically feel it despite Illya halting a foot or so away. Because Napoleon is too busy staring up in an effort to meet Illya’s eyes, he doesn’t notice the man’s hand moving, not until it brushes up against where his fingers are clutched around his glass and Illya’s working the cup out from Napoleon’s grip. His eyes still don’t drop, though, and neither do Illya’s, not even when there’s a _clink_ as Illya sets the glass on the desk and it leaves his hands free.

He’s silent as Illya steps closer, keeps his mouth shut when that movement crowds him back against the desk and Illya’s hand fits beneath his jaw and over his pulse, fingers curling into the shorter hair at the back of his head—but when Illya leans in, eyelids lowered to half mast, Napoleon turns his head, away from the inviting warmth of that mouth. Illya’s lips hit his cheek, the joint of his jaw, and settle against his earlobe, nose pressed into his hair, and then he just—stops. He says nothing, otherwise frozen except for the swell of his breathing, and Napoleon makes a noise, something that he hopes sounds like a sigh but probably sounds a lot like something else.

“You already pushed me away once, Peril.” He resists the urge to touch Illya, firmly keeping his hands by his sides and trying his damnedest not to lean into the warm weight of Illya’s hand at his neck. The Russian doesn’t seem to take the hint—he stays exactly where he is, and it’s beginning to set Napoleon on edge, as if he’s standing on uneven ground. “It’s not going to happen again.”

“It won’t,” Illya murmurs, breath hot against Napoleon’s ear, and Napoleon pushes down the immediate shiver his body tries to fall into.

“Oh?” At this point, Napoleon does put his hands on Illya’s chest, arms flexing against the fabric of his shirt to move Illya backwards. Illya goes willingly, luckily for Napoleon—if he hadn’t wanted to be moved, he wouldn’t have been. “Earlier today says otherwise. This—” he continues, pausing to motion between them, “Is not talking.”

Truthfully, he wants to give in. He does. Illya is devastatingly attractive, not just for his looks (which are a definite bonus), but for his personality, as well—he keeps up with Napoleon’s wit and banter, adds his own dry humor to the mix and doesn’t alienate Napoleon for his quirks or his interests. Napoleon has never been picky with his partners, though he chooses men more carefully than women—Illya happens to tick off nearly every trait he has on that imaginary list. It made resisting him in the studio difficult, and makes it even harder now.

“You want to talk.” Napoleon nods, and Illya’s expression changes, determination settling into the heavy line of his brow. “Fine. I will talk.”

“That _is_ what you came here for,” Napoleon reminds him, and Illya’s mouth twitches into a frown. It lowers Napoleon’s stress levels about this situation, which makes his lips curl into a real smile for the first time since Illya arrived. Just like that, the tension shatters into pieces—it’s not completely gone, by any means, but petulance is almost normal and a reaction he’s able to handle. It’s certainly better than the stress that had held the both of them in place at opposite ends of the room, a great chasm eating up the stilted cadences of their words. “You should move back,” Napoleon recommends after Illya maintains his silence, but Illya doesn’t give any indication that he heard him; instead, he keeps the same distance that had been created when Napoleon gently nudged him back a step or two.

“I did not mean to push you,” Illya blurts out, awkward and thickly accented, and Napoleon can’t help the way his eyebrows tick up towards his hairline. Launching right into it wouldn’t have been his first choice of potential strategies, but Illya is nothing if not unpredictable—he can try to keep up with this.

“Really.”

“You need to stop talking, Cowboy,” Illya advises, and Napoleon shoots him a self-indulgent grin, ever the instigator. He falls quiet, again, some kind of emotion at war on his face, and Napoleon decides to take a calculated risk—he gently skims his fingers up the inside of Illya’s wrist, feather-light against the steady beat of blood beneath thin skin. Illya’s shoulders unwind just slightly, a miniscule change in the way he stands, but it’s enough for Napoleon to see an actual, tangible change in his posture. “I was not expecting it.”

“Not expecting it,” Napoleon drawls, low and honey-sweet, “Or not expecting to enjoy it?” Illya’s arm twitches in his grip, but he doesn’t dislodge Napoleon’s fingers, eyes slipping off Napoleon’s face as Napoleon tilts his head. It sends a thrill through him, lightning arcing down his spine and setting off a burst of sparks in his chest on its way back up.

“Both,” he murmurs, quiet and rough, a deep rasp in the back of his throat that makes Napoleon’s fingers clench unconsciously. His gaze finally flicks back to Napoleon’s, only staying there for a moment before it drops again, and Napoleon knows, without an ounce of doubt, that it’s his mouth that’s being stared at. “There were cameras in the room. ‘The land of the free’ is…not so free. Homosexuality isn’t welcome here.”

At that, Napoleon’s eyebrows lift as high as they can go, his lips parting. Illya bringing up homosexuality…Napoleon would have been hard-pressed to point out the man as having a particular preference for the same sex, especially after he had never confirmed or denied any of the rumors and had dismissed Rannulf’s accusations. It makes some sort of sense (his refusal to look to entertain women flirting with him in any situation, his habit of keeping to himself, his utter lack of a romantic life), but all of those reasons could be explained away by something else. Napoleon is almost offended he didn’t see it coming; or, at least, didn’t seriously entertain the possibility.

“You’re attracted to men.”

“No,” Illya responds quickly, sounding almost as if he’s scandalized by the accusation. Napoleon’s brow furrows, this time—there’s some kind of thought process here he’s not grasping. He looks pointedly down at the limited space between them, head tilting into Illya’s hand at his neck again as he levels the man with an expectant look. “Maybe.”

“And to women.”

“Yes,” Illya answers, this one coming a little easier. Napoleon could have guessed as much, based on Illya’s apparent interest in Gaby, even if it hadn’t progressed further than a few kisses that Napoleon had intentionally interrupted on more than one occasion.

“And you pushed me away because you were surprised. Somebody could have seen us.”

“да,” Illya says, slipping into Russian briefly as his fingers flex against the back of Napoleon’s neck, where they’ve been all this time. Napoleon had almost forgotten they were there. Illya draws near, again, using that hand to tilt Napoleon’s head up, but Napoleon places a finger over the bow of Illya’s mouth, halting his progress. Illya stares at him, eyes dark and unreadable beneath his brows.

“You have to be sure this time, Illya,” he warns, voice soft. He means it to sound unaffected, a little careless, but it comes out vulnerable, hoarse and uneven in the velvet shadows that blanket the small space they stand in. Napoleon has to clear his throat quietly before he speaks again. “Don’t push me away again.”

“Пожалуйста,” Illya murmurs, lower lip catching on the pad of Napoleon’s fingers, and Napoleon only retracts his hand long enough to place it on the side of Illya’s face. Illya exhales a noise between parted lips, fingers curling into the slightly shorter hair at the back of Napoleon’s head, and _he’s_ the one to close the remaining distance between them, long lashes fluttering over high cheekbones before Illya’s mouth is pressing to his.

Time seems to slow, Napoleon’s heart skipping a beat in his chest, and then it all hits him at once—Illya’s lips on his, warm and hesitant, Illya’s hand on the back of his neck, fingers lingering at Napoleon’s hairline, Illya’s body close enough to touch with just a twitch of his hands, Illya, Illya, _Illya—_ and Napoleon is pushing up into it, hand slipping around the back of Illya’s skull to tilt his head and deepen the kiss. Illya’s lips are hot against his, hand burning where it rests on the back of his neck, and Napoleon removes his hand from Illya’s wrist to place it on his side, immediately slipping under his jacket to curve over the lean flare of his hip.

Illya’s lips part beneath the pressure of Napoleon’s mouth, and Napoleon takes that as an invitation, though far more hesitantly than he had earlier—instead of slipping his tongue straight past hard enamel, he backs off just enough to pull Illya’s upper lip between his own, and then moves to the lower, stubble catching against the dark shadow of his own. Napoleon hears Illya hum, fingers tightening on the back of his head, and his lips quirk just before he’s nipping at Illya’s mouth, delighting in the way that sound abruptly hitches and lowers into a grunt, and at Illya’s fingers working further into his hair.

Napoleon’s backside still rests against the desk, a pressure that’s beginning to verge on painful, and the only way to go is forward—he steps into Illya, fingers tugging at the man’s side until he eliminates that last inch between them and slots their hips together. He’s not quite half-hard, but Illya _is,_ a surprising and flattering fact that encourages Napoleon to give an experimental nudge, just a light push against Illya’s front—and Illya freezes against him. It’s just a minor seizing of the major muscles in his upper body, nothing as extreme as the one earlier in the day, but Napoleon still feels it. He draws away as much as he’s able, hands staying where they are and expression remaining calm and open. Since they had talked and Illya had said he wasn’t uncomfortable with men (or Napoleon himself, though the latter was taken more from physical cues than from actual, tangible knowledge), Napoleon isn’t offended. Coaxing Illya out from behind his walls is going to take time.

“Too much?” he asks, peering up at Illya from beneath the fringe of his eyelashes. He won’t force Illya into anything—kissing him is more than enough, though he might have to take things into his own hands later, so to speak. Illya shakes his head rapidly, breathing heavy as he tips his head up and back. Napoleon wants to taste the skin stretched thin over Illya’s pulse, nip at the hollow at the base of his throat, but he keeps those urges to himself; he’d asked a question, and mauling Illya would defeat the point of saying something in the first place.

“No. Just—” Illya cuts himself off with a gruff sound, and Napoleon feels the hand he had been holding just a few, long minutes prior hook into a belt loop as Illya tilts his head back down, tugging insistently. One of his eyebrows ticks, inching towards his hairline, and he’s suddenly being pulled back into the warm crux of Illya’s hips, a solid line of heat from his abdomen down.

It—well, embarrassingly enough, it cuts Napoleon’s train of thought straight in half, mind short-circuiting when Illya nudges a thigh between his own and presses up against him. If Napoleon hadn’t been interested before, he certainly is _now,_ molten lava trickling down through his chest to curl invitingly at the base of his navel.

Never one to be shown up, Napoleon grapples at Illya’s side, fingers holding tight as he rolls his hips up and along Illya’s thigh, swallowing down the noise Illya makes with the hard press of his mouth. Illya shudders, a full-body spasm, and cuts the kiss short by pulling back when Napoleon moves against him again, chin up and lashes fluttering rapidly over twin black pools. Napoleon only stares at the absence of any distinct iris color for just a moment, caught up for a second longer than he wants to be before he’s leaning in to make good on those thoughts he had crushed beneath his boot earlier, mouth skimming up the long line of Illya’s throat and stopping at the rapid thrum of his pulse beneath thinly-stretched skin.

Illya stills again, but it’s different this time—the noise he makes clues Napoleon in, as does the upbeat of his pulse, a staccato tempo thrumming against the press of his mouth. Gently, and so slowly that Napoleon almost can’t stand it himself, he draws the line of Illya’s turtleneck down and away from his throat, staring at the smooth skin stretched almost indecently over the strong muscles of the man’s neck. He parts his lips, scraping his teeth over the jut of the cartilage at the front of Illya’s neck, and the man inhales so sharply and suddenly that Napoleon can _feel_ the inflation of his chest, ribs pushing against the pads of his fingers. Illya seems lost to the world, hands slack where they’re placed on Napoleon’s body, but Napoleon doesn’t mind; with Illya like this, he has all the time and freedom to explore, to map out the skin available to him with his tongue and teeth. Napoleon’s mouth on Illya’s neck has quelled the beast, nothing moving except the muscles pumping blood and oxygen through the Russian’s body.

Napoleon takes his time, mapping out every dip and hollow of Illya’s throat with as much care as he can afford with over six feet of hard muscle pushed up against him. He repeats the move he had made with his teeth, and Illya’s breath stutters in his chest again, drawing something of a smirk from Napoleon; he’ll have to remember that one for later. But that involves nearly no pressure at all—Napoleon wants, _needs,_ to know how Illya would feel about him upping the stakes, so Napoleon bites at the tendon straining in Illya’s neck, lips pursing so he can suck a dark bruise in the skin.

The stillness between them suddenly _shatters,_ tension cracking apart like glass, crystal pieces glittering in the lamplight before they disappear in Illya’s sudden movement. He grabs at Napoleon roughly, hands tight on his hips, and Napoleon sucks in a breath as he’s manhandled to the chaise lounge nearby, Illya planting a hand firmly in the center of his chest and pushing him until he’s seated. Illya pauses, then, drinking in the sight of Napoleon like he’s something to be _eaten,_ a panther eyeing its prey, and Napoleon, unable to help himself, allows a sultry smile to turn up the corners of his mouth, leaning back until he’s sprawled long and lean across the cushion.

“See something you like, Peril?” he asks, not even trying to disguise the low note his voice has taken. When Illya moves like he’s going to join him, Napoleon raises a brow, gesturing at the chaise beneath him. “I’m not sure this thing can support both of our weight.”

“Shut up, Cowboy,” Illya says, exceptionally throaty, and Napoleon feels a shiver race down his spine as the man prowls forward, placing his hands on either side of Napoleon and bending until Napoleon’s back is flat against the cushions. The chaise creaks, but doesn’t buckle, so Napoleon lets his legs part. Illya’s eyes flicker down, hungry, before he takes the invitation and sidles into the crux of Napoleon’s hips.

As soon as Illya’s hips touch his own, erection full-tilt against his, Napoleon’s head tips back, stars dancing across his vision. Illya makes a strangled noise in his throat, head bowed, and Napoleon finally reaches out to touch him, hand skimming underneath the hem of his shirt to touch smooth, unbelievably warm skin. Illya’s flank flutters beneath the pads of his fingers, but Napoleon doesn’t stop, skimming them up and over his ribs until he can splay his hand across the bumps of Illya’s spine. He draws Illya in, using his free hand to tip the man’s chin up so he can kiss him, unexpectedly soft for the state of them both, but it doesn’t last long; soon Illya is nipping hungrily at his lips, teeth sharp and tongue hot when it pushes into Napoleon’s mouth. Napoleon exhales noisily, the hand on Illya’s chin slipping down to his neck, and Napoleon presses his thumb up under Illya’s jaw, right against his carotid, and the man elicits a noise Napoleon will hear in every dream fantasy he conjures of the man for as  long as he lives, a rough whine expelled at the sensation meant to mimic being choked. Illya pulls away just long enough for Napoleon to slip his other hand beneath Illya’s shirt, and Illya gets the hint, stripping it off and discarding it somewhere nearby.

Napoleon takes this time to drink him in, much like Illya had done to him before, and Illya starts to work on the buttons of Napoleon’s shirt, leaning back so he can rest more of his weight on his legs. Napoleon stares at the expanse of skin presented to him, mapping out the various scars crisscrossed over Illya’s torso, and he reaches out to touch a particularly nasty one, thumb brushing over the puckered line that stretches from navel to ribs. Illya pauses, gaze unreadable, and places one of his hands over Napoleon’s, curling his fingers into Napoleon’s palm before he goes back to work.

“As you said—Russia is not so accepting.” Napoleon wants to say something, sooth the man’s hurt, but Illya is focused on his buttons again, fingers moving deftly. Napoleon leans up and draws Illya down for another kiss, easily pushing past the barrier of Illya’s lips and barely resisting a smile when the man almost growls. “Прекрати это. You are trying to distract me.”

“You can’t prove that,” Napoleon says, wicked down to his core, and pulls away long enough for Illya to finish up, fingers splaying over the (frankly ridiculous, if Napoleon says so himself) muscles of his abdomen. Illya presses in experimentally with his nails, and Napoleon’s abdomen flutters beneath Illya’s hand, little sparks of heat following the preliminary bite of pain. Illya was half-right, however; Napoleon _is_ trying to distract him, both away from the pain of his past and from any tasks he might take upon himself, just for fun. He knows Illya is moving on purpose slowly, surely unused to this level of intimacy and care, but Napoleon knows he has needs, the same as any other man—and Napoleon wants to meet those needs, even exceed them, if possible.

Without preamble, he reaches down between them, cupping Illya’s erection in his hand; the man’s whole body jolts, hips pushing into Napoleon’s grip, and he grunts, muttering some kind of expletive that goes right to Napoleon’s dick.

“You are scoundrel,” Illya manages, and Napoleon only smiles sultry grin again, experimentally running the base of his palm up and down Illya’s length.

“You aren’t the first to say that,” Napoleon replies with no small amount of glee, enjoying the way Illya’s arms have started to shake and his hips meet every stroke of Napoleon’s hand. The man is holding so much tension in his muscles that Napoleon is impressed they haven’t given out yet, but Illya is nothing if not sturdy, something that Napoleon is _very_ much looking forward to testing out.

Napoleon stops just long enough to start on Illya’s belt and fly, and the man almost whines again, a needy sound that sends a shiver racing up Napoleon’s spine. That prompts him to move more quickly, and Illya’s hips stutter into his own again when Napoleon slips his hand into Illya’s trousers, finally able to wrap his hand around him. He adjusts the angle of his hand until he can properly stroke the man, and Illya curls his hand into the fabric of Napoleon’s shirt where it stills rests over his shoulder, fingers curling into the collar and wrinkling it beyond repair. Napoleon finds he doesn’t care.

“Solo…I need—” Illya manages, voice hoarse, and Napoleon stares at him from beneath his lashes, peppering short, firm kisses to Illya’s clavicles and the dip of his throat while the man struggles to speak.

“Yes, darling?” Napoleon asks against the man’s skin, slowing down his strokes until it almost takes him a full second to touch the length of Illya’s cock, thumb swiping over the head on every upstroke.

“Пожалуйста. I need to feel you,” Illya finally growls, and Napoleon’s hand stutters, his cock twitching at the rasp of Illya’s voice. He isn’t sure how much Illya is asking for, but Napoleon would do almost anything if it kept the man talking like that.

Napoleon sets to work undoing his own pants, getting the fly open before Illya’s hand is brushing past his own, slipping into his trousers and taking him in a gentle, unsure grip. Napoleon’s head tips back at the feel of Illya’s hand, big and warm and rough, and he can’t bite back the moan that leaves him when Illya’s hand moves, callouses catching at the slick skin. He hasn’t had much practice, but his hand still feels unbelievably good, Napoleon’s belly burning hot with pleasure. Illya is focused intently on the task at hand, one arm supporting all his weight at the elbow, and Napoleon watches the emotion play over his face, from the way his tongue darts out to wet his lips to the concentrated furrow of his brow.

“Illya,” he says, and he likes the way Illya’s name fits in his mouth this time, tongue pressed to teeth to caress the syllables of his partner’s name. Illya looks up from beneath his lashes, and Napoleon kisses him soundly, close-mouthed for only a second before he’s parting Illya’s lips with his tongue, the Russian following suit and licking into Napoleon’s mouth. Napoleon uses the distraction to draw Illya’s hips down until he can wrap his hand around both of them, both Illya’s mouth and hand going slack when Napoleon begins to stroke their cocks together.

“Дерьмо,” Illya mutters under his breath, both his elbows now on either side of Napoleon’s head as his hips move into Napoleon’s hand. Napoleon hisses in a breath at the friction of Illya’s dick against his own, hand smoothly stroking both with the moisture collected between them. “Solo—”

“I know,” Napoleon murmurs, voice low and soft, and Illya suddenly kisses him, scraping his teeth over Napoleon’s lower lip and stubble catching at Napoleon’s chin. Napoleon increases the pace, but not the pressure, listening to the sound of his palm rasping over their erections and the staccato of Illya’s heart in his chest. Napoleon’s thighs part further and Illya’s thrusts get rougher until Napoleon is no longer stroking so much as just holding, keeping Illya’s dick pressed against his as the man pulls his mouth away and bites hard at Napoleon’s throat. Napoleon moans, tipping his head back until his throat is exposed, and Illya takes advantage of the skin presented to him, kissing down until his mouth is at Napoleon’s clavicles and he can suck marks where the bones connect at the hollow of his throat. The chaise beneath them is creaking ominously, but Napoleon can’t find it in himself to care, much too focused on the catch of Illya’s cock on his own, the sting of teeth on his neck.

Illya is close, Napoleon can feel it in the stutter of his hips, so he resumes stroking, hand grappling at the back of Illya’s neck as he twists his fingers over the head of Illya’s cock and back down again to the base. Illya groans, long and low and deep in his chest, and Napoleon watches his throat jump as the man lifts his head, eyes squeezed shut against the onslaught of pleasure. Napoleon remembers the effect biting had had on Illya, so he leans in, biting hard at the junction of Illya’s shoulder and neck, and the man just _shudders,_ a full-body spasm that rocks him to his core as he slams his hips into Napoleon’s. The chaise shakes underneath them, something cracking, but neither of them care, Illya’s bruising grip on Napoleon only tightening as Napoleon fucks into his own fist, using the slick skin of his hand and to push himself along. Illya’s hand suddenly pushes his away, enveloping his cock, and Napoleon unabashedly pushes his hips into Illya’s hand, only rocking his hips a few times before he’s coming, spilling over Illya’s hand and himself. Illya coaxes him through it, breathing heavily, and Napoleon finally opens his eyes, reveling in the absolutely debauched look Illya is sporting.

He looks sated, though, relaxed in a way Napoleon has never seen, so he skims a hand up Illya’s side, the man giving into the shaking of his arms and collapsing on top of Napoleon. That does it for the chaise, unfortunately; the abused lounge finally collapses underneath them, legs splintering as Napoleon desperately grapples at Illya and the man simply follows him down, not moving as they the chaise settles significantly closer to the floor this time.

“I told you it couldn’t support us,” Napoleon says, just to be cheeky, and Illya huffs, a sound that usually sounds angry but has none of the usual bite behind it.

“Shut up, Cowboy,” he replies, but he sounds found, shifting until he can wrap his arms around Napoleon and curl up against his side. “Go to sleep. Is late.”

“It’s not that late,” Napoleon protests, but it’s split in half by a yawn, and Illya looks damnably triumphant. Napoleon is very tempted to tell him to shut up, but can’t be bothered to; as it is, he’s too damn comfortable pressed up against Illya like this, despite the mess, and it’s not long until he feels himself start to drift off, following Illya only a few seconds later.

When he wakes, Illya isn’t by his side, but when he sits up, he spots the man standing in front of the window, the sun bathing him in beautiful, golden light. His shirt is still discarded on the floor, and Napoleon can see the rays catch at the scar tissue littering Illya’s pale skin, shining like stars dotted across his torso. He just stares for a moment, watching the light spill over Illya’s jaw and the marks on his throat, purple flames dancing on the marble column of his neck. Illya must sense him watching, because he turns, then, regarding Napoleon warmly, if a little subdued.

“See something you like, Cowboy?” he asks, parroting Napoleon’s line back at him, and Napoleon can’t help the smile that stretches wide and brilliant across his face, so big he can feel it crinkle his eyes.

“I do, in fact,” Napoleon answers, standing slowly. He gets himself back in order and stands, crossing the room until he can slip between Illya and the window and slide his hands over the man’s shoulders. Illya must have cleaned Napoleon up, as well as himself, as his skin is smooth where Napoleon presses up against his abdomen. It sends a peculiar curl of warmth through him, and that makes his next words mild as honey, smooth and sweet where they pour from his lips. “Dance with me.”

“Again?” Illya protests, but he doesn’t look at all bothered by the idea—in fact, he takes Napoleon’s hand in his own before Napoleon can do it first, fitting his hand around Napoleon’s back and drawing him into a semblance of a waltz. It’s messy, and loose, but Napoleon still finds himself laughing quietly, dust swirling around them in glowing patterns as Illya spins him around the room. It’s the kind of thing he’ll never forget, not for as long as he lives—the sunlight playing across Illya’s face, the halo it gives him, the hint of a smile edging around his mouth as he leads Napoleon in the only waltz he’s genuinely enjoyed.

 

* * *

 

 

Two weeks later and Turkey is hot and dry, salt on Napoleon’s lips and linen shirt sticking to the broad line of his shoulders in the slow-moving heat of the café. Gaby sits across from him, tan and stunning in a light blue dress that hugs her figure, a large hat tipped down over the feline cut of her jaw. Two cups of tea sit in front of them, slightly cooled, while a newspaper rests on Napoleon’s lap, propped open to a page he’s only glanced at once or twice.

Just a block away, still within sight, Illya is cracking open a window, a tiny black dot prowling back and forth across a sandy white balcony. The mission is a simple one, in and out as fast as possible with the data on the trafficker’s home computer, with Gaby and Napoleon keeping an eye on the man while he breaks for lunch with his security team. Napoleon’s eyes slide away from the office building after only a second, back to where Gaby is flicking through an old magazine she had found on a side table.

Silence, for a few minutes, and then, “I heard you taught Illya how to dance.” Napoleon looks at Gaby over the line of the newspaper with raised eyebrows, carefully not paying too much attention to the conversations around them and the sound of Illya breathing heavily in his ear. He’d dressed for a stealth mission further in the country, not one meant to take place in an office building a short walk from the beach of the Mediterranean Sea. Napoleon shudders at the thought of anything wool-related, especially at the knowledge that Illya is wearing some _right now._

“Did he tell you that?” Napoleon asks, flicking his wrists so the newspaper blocks Gaby from his sight. She hums, a short, noncommittal noise that makes Napoleon a little nervous. Incredible that a woman that tiny could hold such sway over him—and over Illya, who is suspiciously quiet in his ear.

“He did,” she answers, and he hears a light _clink_ as she lifts her cup, sipping at the now-cold tea and placing it back down. There’s a burst of laughter from the back of the café, and Napoleon shifts in his seat, trying to keep his back off the chair.

It’s quiet, again, and Napoleon lowers the paper, folding it and placing it on the edge of the table. Gaby is looking out the window, glittering gold slanting across her skin and lighting the dust swirling in the air. Her lashes flutter, eyes closing halfway, and then she’s looking at him from the corners, something dangerous curling around her mouth. Napoleon feels a lot like he’s been caught in the spider’s web, or beneath the cat’s paw.

“I heard you taught him a few other things, too,” she hedges, and Napoleon’s expressions freezes for a moment before he’s grinning, resting an elbow on the table and turning to look out the window as well.

“ _Gaby,_ ” he chides, aiming for scandalized as his fingers tap on the side of his cup. “I don’t kiss and tell.”

“Solo,” Illya warns in his ear before he gets any further, and Napoleon shoots Gaby a smile, chest warm and light as she huffs a low, smoky chuckle beneath her breath.

Four minutes later and Illya comes into the restaurant, now dressed in a loose shirt with a neckline that ends in a point and scuffed slacks. He only pauses for a moment before moving towards them, pulling out his chair and awkwardly folding his legs up under the table—it presses his thigh along Napoleon’s, warm and comforting, and Napoleon gives him a sideways look. Illya says nothing, jaw tight as his throat flexes above the open collar of his shirt, and Gaby quirks a brow at them, obviously enjoying herself—her laugh is high and melodic, the tinkling of wind chimes in a gentle breeze, but Napoleon doesn’t mind her amusement.

This is where he belongs, with Illya at his side and Gaby across from them, warm and close and as safe as it gets in the endless danger that their job brings them. Napoleon wouldn’t want it any other way.

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi on [tumblr](http://kuryaakin.tumblr.com/)!


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